give up. The terrain, although cleared of trees and shrubs, had not been graded yet. Rudker stumbled on a huge dirt clod and almost went down. After another ten steps, he was breathing so hard he had to stop. He kneeled and dropped Sula in the dirt. For a moment, she lay there unmoving. Rudker took a few deep breaths of air. Abruptly Sula rolled away and split the night with a shriek.
Her cry shot through him like an electric jolt. Rudker lunged and landed on her as she rolled again. He covered her mouth with his hand and willed his heart to slow down. Jesus. What if he had a heart attack out here?
Sula finally stopped struggling and Rudker’s pulse settled into a still-rapid, but steady rate. He pushed to his knees so he was straddling her.
Rudker used the flashlight to look around for the tape that had been on her mouth, but it was a pointless search. Even if he could find it out here in the dark, it would be covered with dirt and not likely to re-adhere.
Rudker squeezed her face and leaned in close. “You’re not getting away. Diane Warner didn’t get away and she was a better woman than you are.”
In a quick motion, he pulled his hand away from her mouth and brought the flashlight down on her forehead. Sula’s eyes closed and her head rolled to the side. Rudker peeled back a strip of the tape from her ankles, ripped it loose, and pressed it over her mouth. Letting her scream again worried him more than the possibility she could get away from him out here. He wasn’t overly concerned about either. He had smacked her pretty hard. If she opened her eyes again she would be breathing dirt.
He heaved Sula’s limp, heavy body over his other shoulder. Warner had been much smaller and easier to deal with. That had been an unfortunate accident. She had gone too far with her accusations and he had simply lost control. The fact that Warner had been dressed in jogging clothes made the body decision easy: Dump her near the bike path and hope some homeless crazy guy got blamed. It had worked too. This time he had to be more careful. A second death of a Prolabs’ employee would draw police suspicion. A disappearance was another story.
With a new surge of energy, Rudker pushed to his feet. He had to get moving. He still had a grave to dig.
Chapter 37
Sula thought she was still in the vehicle, rolling down the road, but there was something wrong with one of the tires. It was making a rhythmic “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound. She fought to wake herself up. It was important to keep track of where they going.
As she surfaced, the front part of her brain burned with raw pain. Her eyelids felt sticky, and she struggled to get her eyes open and keep them open. Darkness surrounded her, but overhead she could see stars. She was outside, not in the car. The ground beneath her was cool and damp even through her pants. Her arms, trapped under her back, ached from the strain and weight of her body.
How did she get here? Had Rudker carried her? Where was he? She inched her head forward off the ground. The steady “chunk” sound was louder and clearer now. About ten feet away, Rudker’s form came into focus. He bent over, then straightened up. Then did it again. As her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, Sula realized he had a shovel.
He was digging!
Her heart skipped a beat. The bastard was digging a hole to bury her in. Sula wanted to scream, but her mouth was taped and her lungs were paralyzed with fear.
No. No. No. She cried without sound, without tears. She wasn’t ready to die. She wanted to see Tate grow up, even if it was from a distance. She wanted to have a real love affair. She wanted to write investigative journalism stories.
The chunk sounded continued. She could hear Rudker’s labored breath between digs.
A memory, dark and horrible, fluttered around the edge of her consciousness. Sula tried to push it away, but she had no strength, no reserve of mental health to draw from right now. At first the memory floated in and out with brief hazy images, but the sound of the shovel striking the dirt reverberated in her brain. The past flooded into her consciousness in full, technicolor detail as though it were happening all over again.
Sula watched her father from her bedroom window. His tall, thin body hunched over the hole he was digging in the back yard as the wind tousled his collar-length hair. The cold evening air blew the tears off his cheeks as he worked. Sula had cried at first too. Mostly because her parents were upset and bad things happened when they got emotional.
Her mother had run over Patches, her daddy’s dog, while coming down the driveway.
Mom had burst in as Sula and Calix and Dad sat at the kitchen table, eating cold ham sandwiches and corn chips. Her pretty face was twisted with liquor and grief. She slumped at the table and sobbed. All she would say was “I’m sorry.” Sula and her sister refused to give their mother the attention she wanted, but her father, sensing it was more than just another missed dinner, ran out to the driveway.
A loud wail penetrated the thin trailer wall. She’d heard Daddy cry before, but not like this. This was distressing. Calix, older by a year and Dad’s favorite, pushed past their mother and ran out to him. Sula followed, but with a wary caution. She’d learned to distrust high emotion, to shut down her own feelings so she would not be caught up in the drama.
Her father kneeled on the ground next to her mother’s Oldsmobile and cradled the black-and-gray Australian Shepherd in his arms. There was little blood, but Patches was clearly broken. The sight of the injured dog and her father weeping was more than Sula could handle. She and Calix cried with him.
Then abruptly Dad stood. “Calix, bring my pistol.
Her sister’s distress was visible. “Why?”
“I have to end his suffering. Bring it to the back yard.”
Sula could not watch. She went to her bedroom, ignoring her mother’s call for attention. Once there, she stood near the window and peeked out, watching to see if her sister would do as told. Calix, as stubborn as she was beautiful, was often defiant of their parents. Sula preferred peace, even if it meant losing ground.
Calix came into the back yard, carrying the gun as if it were a poisonous snake. Her dad put Patches on the grass, took the pistol from Calix, then told her to go inside. Sula turned away from the window. The gun blast was a short, loud pop. Sula wondered if their neighbors had heard. The Crawleys were about a half mile away.
Sula turned back and watched her father retrieve a shovel from the shed. He began to dig. The “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound seemed to go on forever, but Sula could not tear herself away. She wanted to know the minute he was done. She wanted to be ready for whatever came next. Part of her brain said to leave the house, to get far away, but she couldn’t. She loved her mother in spite of her drinking and would stay to protect her if she could.
She returned to the kitchen where her mother sat at the table eating Sula’s sandwich. She no longer wanted it, but it annoyed her anyway. Calix’s dinner was also unfinished. Her sister was in the living room watching TV.
“Hi honey. I’m sorry about the dog. Was this your sandwich?” The smell of gin hung around her mother like a cloud.
“You can have it.” Sula watched for signs of awareness or concern but didn’t detect any. “Dad has been a little high strung lately.”
“I know, honey. That’s why I went to the bar with the girls.”
“This may set him off.”
“It’s only a dog.”
“Maybe we should go for a walk.”
Her mother laughed. “No thanks.”
As Sula started to sit down at the chipped formica table, her mother jumped up. “I’m going to take a shower.” She sashayed away, her jeans hugging her lithe body and her long hair gently swinging. She looked too young to have teenage daughters. People always said so.
The back door slammed. Sula jumped, then glanced over at Calix. Her sister’s gaze never left the TV, but her eyes watched their father as he moved past both of them, gun in hand.
